7
JENNIFER’S PLAN TO kiss David lasted all of thirty seconds before she was suddenly pulled into Bobby’s strong arms. Anger radiated off him, his voice low, serious, “If you’re trying to piss me off,” he declared, lacing his fingers in her hair, his blue eyes glinting with steel, “it’s working.” His mouth slanted over hers, punishing, hard, full of demand.
Jennifer told herself not to respond, to shove him away, but the thrust of his tongue against hers, the spicy, primitive taste of him, ignited something inside her. So, instead of resisting, she kissed him back, answering the anger spilling through him, into her, with anger of her own. Kissed him with the kind of passion that could not be bred of mere physical attraction, the kind of attraction formed from an emotional bond, once built, and then torn down. Kissed him with every drop of emotion curled inside her, ready to explode—with seven years of anger and hurt, with the devastation of the night he’d left, and the determination to send him away again, but on her terms.
Time stood still as she poured all the shattered pieces of herself into the slide of tongue against tongue. Her hands gripped his shoulders, one to his face. She took…and took; she demanded.
It was Bobby who broke the connection, pulling back to stare down at her with dark eyes that stole a path straight to her soul. Jennifer could barely breathe, compelled by their intensity, in the certainty that whatever escape she’d believed the kiss had offered, had simply led her deeper into a trap.
Bobby pushed to his feet and for the second time that evening, he scooped her into his arms. The crowd came back into focus, the hoots and hollers suddenly an invasion of privacy. Jennifer buried her face in Bobby’s neck, seeking refuge with the very man she should be hiding from. But what she felt, what she wanted, what she had to deal with—all of it ended right back at him and him alone, not to be shared with anyone else. Not a crowd, not even Marcie, who was like a sister to her.
Jennifer let him carry her away, knowing full well they were headed to a bedroom to finish what they’d started seven years before. In bed. And she was going to enjoy every last minute of it—because she deserved it.
***
BOBBY WAS ANGRY. No. Angry didn’t begin to touch on the wild emotions spiraling inside him, the possessiveness. Everything male in him wanted to claim her, had to claim her, though he knew he had no right—that he’d left, that he’d given her up. But reason didn’t matter right now. Feeling her close, holding her, being with her, making love to her—that was what mattered.
At first, a little gamesmanship offered a good chance to use a few skydiving dares and he’d get to combine work with pleasure. It meant assurance that he could get out to the Hotzone, and investigate this ex-Army Ranger Rocky, without losing his leave time with Jennifer. He wanted his mission complete, done, over and quickly. But despite his urgency to get focused on Jennifer, Bobby was all about checking out this Rocky character. One thing Bobby couldn’t stand was a man who fought for his country, turning against his country. And if Rocky was selling drugs, he was definitely working against his country.
Bobby carried Jennifer up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He shoved open a spare bedroom, dim light flickering from a bedside lamp. He kicked the door shut behind them, locked it, and carried Jennifer to the mattress. They went down on the bed, her on the bottom, him on top. That was where he wanted to be. On top. For now. Later, she could be on top.
“What was that all about down there?” he demanded. “On second thought, don’t answer that. You’ll just piss me off more than I already am.”
“You’re pissed—” He smothered her words with a kiss, spearing his tongue past her lips with command. She was his, maybe not forever, but for now. He branded her with long strokes of his tongue, greedily taking until he tore his mouth from hers, hungry for more than her mouth.
She gasped and shoved at his shoulders. “You’re pissed off?” she demanded. “I’m pissed off, Bobby!”
“Good,” he hissed and pushed off the bed, unbuttoning his shirt enough to pull it over his head. “Then show me pissed off, Jennifer. Show me now.” He tossed the shirt on the floor. He remembered the fights and the makeup sex—passionate, hot, couldn’t-get-enough-of-each-other sex—he wanted that now.
Jennifer pressed herself to a sitting position on the bed, her breath heavy, chest rising and falling, lifting her full, high breasts, as she declared, “This isn’t makeup sex, Bobby,” she warned, reading his mind. Proving she still knew him.